


"Oh No"

by learninghowtosmut



Series: In Which They Learn About Themselves [1]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Banter, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Festivals, Hair-pulling, Humor, Kidnapping, Kink Discovery, M/M, Multi, Praise Kink, Rescue Missions, Teasing, Who holds the brain cell? It is a mystery, ish?????, someone gets tied up ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/learninghowtosmut/pseuds/learninghowtosmut
Summary: Three times they discover something new about themselves (and one time they act on it)
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Sypha Belnades, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont, Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades, Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Series: In Which They Learn About Themselves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724728
Comments: 8
Kudos: 190





	1. Hair

Belmont is the single most reliable form of entertainment on the road. Perhaps this is why Alucard can’t stop himself from pushing and needling him, despite the Speaker magician’s disapproval. It’s a long path to their end goal, and given what awaits him when he makes his final return home, he will take what distractions he can find.

The lowest-hanging fruit is, of course, personal hygiene. It is possible that Belmont has not so much as lain eyes on a bar of soap in a year, if not longer. His clothes, while appearing rich and expensive from a distance, are well-worn and as dirty and smelly as he is himself. Add in the aura of stale beer and a pitiful picture is painted. He wonders idly if Belmont knows what water is for, beyond fighting the unholy hordes of night-creatures that make up the ranks of Dracula’s army.

Unfortunately, the expeditionary prods and pokes at Belmont’s ego are reined in when the Speaker magician turns and gives him that look of clear disapproval. And yes, disappointment.

He would be lying if he were to say that it doesn’t hurt, just a little. 

It isn’t as if he expects to make it out of this alive, so why does the good opinion of someone he met only a few days ago affect him like this?

Still, he rises above it to be the better person for the afternoon. And no, he doesn’t miss Belmont’s muttered  _ ‘smug bastard’. _

But good behaviour can only last so long. He can’t keep himself from pushing again that evening. The sun is kissing the horizon and the fire is growing brighter and brighter in the gathering darkness. There are a very few birds still calling to each other and before long the night’s chorus has started up.

He doesn’t even think about what he’s saying until it’s too late. He’s already falling into a habit of teasing and pushing for a rise.

“You want to say that again?” Belmont challenges him, heavy eyebrows drawn down, his knuckles white around his spoon.

Where did that scar come from, a disconnected part of Alucard’s mind idly wonders.

“Say what? That it’s a miracle anyone in your family survived to reproduce if you are a typical example of Belmont stock?” he replies smoothly.

Sypha looks up with narrowed eyes. She opens her mouth to reprimand him. There’s the petty bickering, and then there’s cruelty. That had crossed the line.

But Trevor is blind to her disapproval. Anger burns hot inside him. He launches himself at Alucard, forgetting his weapons, everything except his own two fists.

“At least they weren’t  _ fucking _ monsters!” he manages to reply while smashing a fist at his face.

Thank the heavens for vampiric reflexes. He blocks the wild lunge, catching his fist and twisting quickly to roll them around, landing on top. “The church would disagree.”

_ “Fuck _ the church!” His leg hooks around one of Alucard’s own, he braces himself, and throws them both into another roll.

Alucard smells the sharp tang of blood in the air when Belmont stops them. Feels his fangs sharpen, something dark inside him rearing its head.

He pushes it down and Belmont over, forcing his way back to being on top.

“How very imaginative of you.”

Belmont’s breathing is harsh and ragged in his ears. His hands are pinned, but his legs are not. 

Alucard wheezes from the force with which his knee drives into his stomach. He pulls back, just an inch, on reflex.

Belmont wrests his hands free and makes another blind attack.

They descend into brawling on the ground like children, kicking up dust and grinding dirt into each other’s face and clothes and hair.

It’s oddly cathartic. No weapons, no tactics, no higher thought. Just instinct and rage and fists.

It comes to an abrupt halt. A hand fists in his hair, uses it to wrench his head away and force him into a better position for attack.

He moans.

It’s bizarre enough that Belmont stops and stares, golden hair still wrapped around his hand. 

His own hand leaves Belmont’s shirt in shock. He covers his traitorous mouth.

_ What is this feeling? _

Embarrassment rises up. Even more so when the cocky hunter smirks and gives his hair another tug, using less force this time. 

“What’s the matter, vampire? Cat got your tongue?”

“Are you two  _ finished?” _ the Speaker calls over, exasperation plain in her voice. She’s further away than he’d expected. It would seem that their brawl has carried them a good distance.

He opens his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by another tug on his hair. He glares at Belmont. Sets one hand on his wrist and  _ squeezes _ . Not hard enough to do any damage, but the silent promise is there.

He lets him go.

“Say  _ one word _ about this and I will kill you in your sleep, prophecy or no prophecy.”

He smirks in response, cocky and reckless. 

Alucard wonders what it would take to wipe that smirk off of his infuriating face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having a conversation with a friend and the following was said: "I kind of want them all to have surprise kinks they find out at Very Bad Moments"
> 
> So this.
> 
> Enjoy?


	2. Praise

They’re on the way to the Belmont Hold, passing through small hungry village after small hungry village on the way, trying to keep a low profile as far as they can. Unfairly, whenever there’s somewhere selling a decent pint, either Alucard grabs him by the scruff of his shirt and pulls him away, or Sypha  _ looks _ at him with those big kitten eyes and that sorrowful turn to her eyebrows and then opens her mouth and verbally scalps him.

_ “We need that coin for food, Trevor.” _

_ “I don’t want to have your hangover inflicted on me, Belmont.” _

_ “You shouldn’t drink after losing that much blood! What is wrong with you?” _

It’s always some excuse they have to ruin his fun. Hold away the one thing in life that brings him joy. Keep him miserably sober while marching off to what might turn out to be his death.

This is more of a town than a village, from what he can see as the horse ambles on towards the palisade wall. He’s instantly on the lookout for any signs of someone, somewhere who could sell him a quick beer, while also trying to keep it hidden from the two  _ killjoys _ he’s stuck on a quest with.

“It is almost as if we were sharing the wagon with a particularly dim and distractible puppy.”

Okay, maybe he’s not being as subtle as he thought. Damn. 

“Alucard, be nice or you can be the one who comes with me to carry things while Trevor stays back to guard the wagon,” she threatens.

“He’s got vampire strength,” Trevor points out ‘helpfully’, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth. “You should be using him as a pack mule anyway.” A curl of savage satisfaction grows in his chest at the little jab to his heritage.

“You have a point,” she notes with a decisive nod. “Alucard, you are promoted to packhorse. Trevor,  _ you _ are promoted to guard dog!” She announces this brightly, and as ever, she doesn't even pause to consider that they might have opinions of their own.

_ Guard dog _ .

It’s not  _ meant _ badly, he knows.

It’s just a little too close to some of the insults that have been spat at him over the years. Usually directly before his balls got a good kicking.

Sometimes he wonders if the Belmont line has already been doomed to end with him, what with the number of boots that have ended up planted squarely in his testicles.

“I’m not a  _ dog _ ,” he protests, sounding very put-out. But he’s not pouting because  _ he isn’t a little child of five years old _ .

“Oh really? You could have fooled me. You definitely  _ smell _ like one. I would be willing to wager that you have  _ fleas _ like one as well.”

“Go fuck yourself with a dead tree branch. A  _ spiky _ one.”

“ _ Behave yourselves! _ If the prophecy had said that the soldier and the hunter were worse than  _ children _ , I may have decided it would be better to go after Dracula alone!”

He huffs, but decides not to push it. A glance at the other side of the wagon finds that Alucard is following suit. They turn away from each other and ignore each other until they make it through the town’s gate. 

It looks like it and the walls have been fixed in a hurry. Maybe they had been allowed to crumble somewhat in more peaceful times before this clusterfuck hit. But nowhere is safe from Dracula’s wrath.

The wagon is parked in a square with good sight to possible approach and a good escape route. The people eye them with the same suspicious wariness that is found up and down Wallachia these days. Odds are everyone here knows  _ someone _ who’s been lost - whether ripped apart in their bed or carried off in the night. 

Trevor thinks in a moment of morbidity that being ripped apart in his bed would be preferable. That at least would be quick, unlike whatever dread fate awaits those unlucky sods who end up in the night horde’s talons.

He goes to the nearest fountain with a bucket for the horse while Sypha and Alucard put together what they need for their shopping trip, picking through their supplies to find what needs replacing. He stoops down, dips it into the icy water. His eyes wander over the weathered carvings, down old curves and lines that would have depicted gods and goddesses, once, idly sweep around the basin for any possible glint of coin in the water.

This was a beautiful fountain, once. But time and weather have worn the stone down, while the dust and dirt and lichen of centuries passing have filled the marks made by the chisel of a long-ago craftsman. Almost definitely Roman. There is one inscription that is still readable, the marks carved deeper into the stone than the delicate relief work and worn-away faces.

PER GRATIA NAIADORUM AQUA OMNES ENIM

_ By the grace of the Naiads, the water is for all _ , he translates in his head.

Well, good to know that  _ some _ things have stuck. His Latin tutor, may his soul never rest, would certainly be pleased that some of his teachings made it through his thick skull.

He hefts the bucket out of the water, makes sure it doesn’t slop over, shuffles his way back to the wagon where Sypha and Alucard are waiting for him. He ignores them and heads for the horse, holding up the bucket to let the dependable old thing have a good long drink.

“I’m here, now off you go. I promise not to start any fights so long as  _ you _ promise not to start any fires.”

“That was  _ one time! _ ” Sypha protests.

“We promise,” Alucard cuts across her. “Come on, let’s get this done and back on our way again as soon as possible.

While they’re gone, the drizzle that has been steadily soaking everything it can touch all day gets stronger and heavier. It clumps his hair together, weighing his head down and forming a little rivulet down the back of his neck. His clothes are clinging to him and he has started losing feeling in his toes.

Not for the first time today, he thinks longingly of a good beer by a nice hot fire. 

He  _ could _ go inside the wagon and take shelter, but damn his paranoia - without anyone to cover his back, there is no way he’s cutting off so many lines of sight and trapping himself somewhere with limited escape routes. So he stays where he is at the old gelding’s shoulder getting companionably drenched while he waits for Sypha and Alucard to return.

“ _ -ld you _ he’d be getting wet!”

He looks up. A welcome figure in blue is hurrying across the square towards him.

“I never said he wouldn’t be. I said it was just the kind of stupidity I would expect from  _ Belmont _ .”

Funny. It sounds like less of a dismissal than it had been before.

“It’s not stupidity if I’m travelling with someone who can make fire with her hands,” Trevor defends himself with a grin. “Speaking of fire, I see none got started without me.”

“Yes, and you didn’t start any fights either,” Alucard retorts. “I barely thought it possible.”

Sypha rummages around in her pockets as she gets closer to him and then holds out something  _ hot _ .

He takes the meat pie, even though it’s hot enough to burn, and slowly realises just how cold and wet he is feeling.

“Good boy!” she teases, lightly patting his cheek. Her smile lights up her face like the absent sun. “Well guarded!”

_ Oh. _

Something warm glows inside him and he realises that if it’s  _ her _ saying it, maybe being called an upstart guard dog wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My working title for this was literally "Trevor good boy"


	3. Ropes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only just started series 3 so if this is noncompliant with the end don't @ me, pls

They never should have left him on his own, that much is clear.

He’s been _hurting_ without them, and while Trevor is staring at the brand new stone being laid down over the foundations of what was once his home, Sypha rushes forwards. She leaps to envelop him in a hug, robes flying. 

“You! You _stay with us_ from now on, okay?!” she demands.

Not one of them is alone for so long again, not after that day. Not after seeing the dolls. Yes, Alucard tries to play it off as something funny, doing his best impression of them both, but he’s not fooling either of them.

Falling into the same bed together feels like the most natural thing in the world. Before long, their emotions are so tied up in one another that it would be impossible to pull their lives apart, even if they tried. One or two of them might leave for supplies or to gather information or to deal with something harmful to the people living in the towns and villages in the area, but they’re never away for longer than a fortnight. Usually, it’s just a week at the most.

The best days are the ones where they go out together. 

It’s the day of the summer solstice and Trevor is taking them to the nearest town for them to share in the Midsummer festivities. Everyone is getting together to celebrate the upcoming harvest, and after an end to the fear of the last couple of years, the atmosphere is brighter and louder and rowdier than usual. It hasn’t even struck noon yet and people are already drunk in the street.

Sypha grabs Trevor’s collar before he can slip away to join them. He turns and gives her a pleading look.

“ _One,”_ she relents.

He grins and they go over to a stall which is _very_ popular. There’s a bit of a crowd, but they - for the most part - respectfully make room to let the three of them through. It’s not like they can keep a low profile, and everyone in these parts knows them in some way.

Trevor does not pay for his tankard - all three of them are well-known now - and they shuffle away to let the brewer take another person’s coin. He props up a wall to drink and they pause, look around, get an idea of what there is on offer.

Everywhere their eyes land, there is something to draw attention, some delight for the senses. A band of musicians has already taken ownership of the main square, and individual buskers have marked out their claims around the streets. Women are offering beautifully embroidered works of all kinds, picked out in dandelion yellows and rich greens and bright scarlets. Games of skill and chance abound, and Sypha is already quietly making plans for them to compete against one another. More importantly, she’s deciding exactly what tactics she needs to use to _beat_ them.

But first, once Trevor has finished the last drops of beer, she drags them over to a baker selling pastries and sweet rolls and cakes of all kinds.

Thin rays of sun slip through holes in the awning and bounce off the glaze on top of the charmingly-shaped rolls. Some of them have been formed into little birds, others have been plaited and woven together, still more have been made into flowers. She greedily breathes in the smell of freshly-baked bread and a comfortable warmth settles in her chest, teasing the smile that always plays at her lips into something bigger and brighter.

She walks away with a roll shaped like a hedgehog, still hot to the touch. When she bites into it, the sweetness of a smooth apple compôte bursts out over her tongue. A surprised bubble of laughter bursts out of her, but before she can wipe a little drip of apple from her chin, a smooth thumb is already there for her.

“What’s left of last year’s harvest, I’d imagine,” Alucard says after he licks his thumb clean. “Smooth. Very nicely made.”

She elbows him playfully in the ribs. “And it’s _mine!_ You had your chance and you got that boring cheese roll instead!”

He concedes her point and the three of them wander off to look at one of the games of skill. It’s a fairly simple targeting game, but of course, Trevor decides to get competitive. 

“I could beat you with my right hand behind my back,” he brags.

“Well, _I_ could defeat you while blindfolded,” Sypha retorts with a wide smile. They fall into a discussion of rules and handicaps and, of course, what kind of forfeit he will have to carry out when he loses. Alucard stands back and watches with a fondly exasperated smile on his face and, if Trevor were asked, a deep sense of smug superiority nestled deep in his soul.

She hadn’t killed Dracula or moved his castle or found her sleeping soldier by entertaining the possibility of defeat, and she isn’t going to start now.

When they’ve finished ironing out the details - it’s _not_ bickering, she’s above her boys’ pettiness - Alucard has disappeared. And not in the ‘I’ve slipped away to find a nice surprise for you two’ way, but in a way that has a deep, cold weight settling in her chest and constricting her throat.

She shares a look with Trevor. He nods. They split up, circle around the stalls, find each other again with no luck and down one dhampir.

“He can’t have gone far.”

“I asked around - nobody’s seen him.”

When they find out that he got himself _kidnapped_ , Sypha instantly turns to glare at Trevor and elbow him in the ribs. This is _serious!_

He’s unrepentant, even if he does try to look at least sheepish, if not apologetic. To nobody’s surprise. 

Sypha suspects she’ll probably see the funny side of things _after_ he’s back safe with them.

When a cart is seen heading out of the town at a suspiciously high speed, they don’t even need to look at each other to start following. Determination speeds their feet and pushes them faster, keeping it in sight. The stories of the three of them have spread, and with the universal adoration they receive - which Sypha very much enjoys - comes danger. People who want vengeance for Dracula, people who want to make sure the Belmont line ends, people who want to use them to prove themselves.

So they breathe a little deeper, push a little faster, follow their kidnapped lover - and oh, she’s going to enjoy teasing him for being a damsel in distress after this - as best they can. Of course, they can’t keep up with the horses in a steady canter, but they can at least keep it in sight.

And of course it’s an abandoned church they end up at. One that is falling to pieces and far enough from anything that nobody is going to come across it by accident. As of yet, Sypha has never had any _good_ experiences with anything that’s come from an abandoned church.

Even before it began to crumble, it was only a small building. More of a chapel than anything else. Just a simple stone box that would have served an equally small population. Bare rafters stretch their broken silhouettes against the sky, except for in a few small patches where roofing still clings to the ribs beneath. Lichens and moss have colonised the walls in an inexorable climb upwards. Windows which never held glass gape blindly, bereft of any shutters or coverings. 

The forest around them is deadly silent. 

No birds sing; nothing is moving in the undergrowth; even the flying insects have vanished.

“Why do I get the feeling they didn’t do this to find out what we want for a heroes’ feast?” Trevor asks drily, already palming one of his throwing knives. 

There are two people swathed in rust-red robes at the entrance. Hoods conceal their faces and the cloaks brush the ground.

They don’t even need to look at each other to make the plan.

Sypha distracts them, Trevor runs up behind before they can sound any alarm and knocks them out. They drag them off into the woods, strip them, bind them, gag them. Not one word passes between them until they’re done.

“What do you think?” she asks, holding her arms out wide.

“Blue suits you better,” Trevor tells her, tugging the hood down to shade her face. He pauses for a moment before lifting it up just a little bit to kiss her. “How about me?”

Neither robe fits them very well - Sypha’s drags on the floor, and Trevor’s hovers a couple of centimetres above his ankles. But they’ll serve for the task they have to accomplish.

“Hmm…” She looks him up and down. “I like it better when I can see your thighs,” she teases before pushing his cloak open to pat the outside of one playfully. 

“You’re a menace,” he says fondly. 

All that’s left to do is to put her folded over-robes up somewhere safe before going in to rescue their boy. They duck through the doorless archway into the old chapel.

And it is _instantly_ uncomfortable. This place radiates _wrong, wrong,_ **_wrong._ **In so many different ways. 

They’re both on edge, both straining their senses for any little sign that could be all the warning they get. The stone is crumbling, dead leaves have collected in little corners, and spiders’ webs span every little space. This place has not been used for worship for a long time. 

It’s empty. The sunlight which filters through the trees outside and the rafters above picks out the details of an empty room, with no features other than a stone block on a raised platform which must have once been the altar.

Again, with no communication needed, they drift apart to search for any sign of Alucard. There are at least four other people in here, and no immediate sign of their passing can be seen. They have to be hidden _somewhere_.

Trevor finds the stairs. 

The descent is steep and the light fades quickly. They keep going down, tapping out to find the next step, one hand on the wall, until there are no more stairs to descend. They follow the wall until they can see a glow at the end. Sypha estimates that they’re underneath the chapel’s entryway, now.

They still haven’t seen anyone.

As they get closer to the orange glow at the end, the rumble of distant voices gets louder and clearer.

The passageway opens up into a chamber. Filled with people in the same rust-red robes that they’re wearing. And there on the wall, daubed in a sickening blood-red, is a giant demonic sigil.

_Well shit._

They have to get him out of here sooner rather than later.

Sure, they might have something _nice_ planned for the only son of Dracula, but for some reason, as the chanting swells, Sypha isn’t that optimistic.

“...You distract them,” she murmurs. “I’ll find him.”

If he’s not broken out yet, they must have some kind of extra hold on him. She’s the best choice for dismantling whatever it is.

Trevor nods.

She grabs him by the clasp of his ‘borrowed’ robes and pulls him down to her level for a kiss. “If you get yourself injured, I’ll be very cross with you.”

“Meet you outside the church.” He straightens up, tugs the hood down low over his face, and walks in to join the group. 

For a moment, Sypha thinks he’s finally learnt how to be subtle.

Then the yelling starts.

She rolls her eyes, but a distraction is a distraction.

She slips through, unnoticed in the chaos, and finds herself in another passageway lined with doors. She walks down, testing them, until she finds one that does not open.

Not without some persuasion, at least.

It swings slowly open, letting dim light into a dark room. And there, hanging off the far wall, is Alucard. She lowers her stolen hood after glancing down the passage to make sure they're alone.

His head hangs heavy, hair tumbling down over his shoulders, down over his chest. He’s been stripped half-naked and almost seems to glow in the gloom, his skin is so pale.

Trevor’s done a good job at drawing everyone off, so all she really needs to do is step inside, remove his bonds, and leave.

She clears her throat.

His head lifts. A few loose strands of hair curtain his face, hiding one eye. His lips part, resignation slipping into surprise.

Sypha is a little insulted.

“You didn’t think we’d be coming after you?” 

One corner of his mouth tugs up. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to distract Belmont from the beer and children’s games,” he replies.

"It took some work," she jokes. She pushes the door shut behind her with her foot and sweeps her arms out. Flames spring to life in the air, flooding the little chamber with light.

_Oh._

_Oh no._

Her tongue drags over her lip as she takes in the sight. He’s fully tied up and unable to move anything but his head. The bonds constraining his wrists push his chest out so she can fully admire the lines of his muscles. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes dropping to the lines crossing his thighs, and imagines what it would be like, seeing him strain against them when they had first been put on.

“How are they holding you so well?” she asks, and _oh_ , _that’s the bedroom voice._ Oops.

“They’re enchanted.” He looks at her properly and recognises that look on her face. “Sypha, is this really necessary?” His voice rings with a very different kind of resignation to before.

She smiles slowly, making a show of looking him up and down, committing the sight to memory. “Yep, I’m pretty sure it is.” The curl of delight in her voice is like a cat pouncing on a little bird with a satisfied twitch of the tail and flick of the ears before settling down to enjoy her prey.

“Sypha, there are _cultists_ who want to _sacrifice me_ to a _demon._ Can’t we do this later?” While he knows that neither of his lovers would ever let him get hurt in the same way he knows the sun rises in the East, there is no concealing that quavering note of panic in his otherwise perfectly level voice.

“Is that a promise?” She hurries closer, bending to get a look at his bonds so she can systematically deconstruct them. But not before pressing a quick little kiss to the corner of his lips and playfully tugging on a strand of hair.

He closes his eyes, those lips silently tracing out the pattern of a prayer to the world for _strength._

Sypha grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was literally just supposed to be Sypha finding Alucard tied up, saving one for the spank bank, and then saving him. I don't know what happened either, but I *do* know that Trevor is very good at being a Sexy Distraction
> 
> I'm going to keep this rated at T and do the final bit as a separate story. Upcoming: porn  
> Please let me know your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> I was having a conversation with a friend and the following was said: "I kind of want them all to have surprise kinks they find out at Very Bad Moments"
> 
> So this.
> 
> Enjoy?


End file.
